Punctuality
by StoneWingedAngel
Summary: The five times John was nearly too late for Sherlock, and the one time he wasn't.
1. Cry Wolf

**Ok so, if you've read any of my other fics you've probably worked out I like whumping people. A lot. So I warn you now this is basically my excuse to whump Sherlock in (hopefully) creative ways. I can't help it; he's just so easy to injure. **

**Warnings for: Eventual S/J in later chapters. A**** ridiculously far-fetched plot and mentions of blood/violence**** in this one.**

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><p><strong>Cry Wolf<strong>

John was on a date with Sarah; and things were going remarkably well. True, she'd told him she never wanted to see him again after the Black Lotus fiasco, but they'd eventually decided to give it another try.

In the in-between time he'd dated Alisha. She'd barely lasted an hour – Sherlock had burst into the middle of the restaurant, seized John by the arm and dragged him out. He'd only wanted John to help him on an exiting new case (or so he'd said) but poor Alisha had been convinced he'd just been abducted by a madman. It had taken hours to explain to the police.

Sarah smiled at him across the table. "What're you thinking?"

"Nothing. Nothing." Bringing up anything to do with their first date was a fatal mistake. He glanced at the menu and looked over at her. "What're you having?"

"The chicken looks good." She launched into an anecdote about her grandmother and chicken, and John was just beginning to grin as the story reached the climax when his phone went off in his pocket.

He'd put it on silent, but it was one of those models that vibrated whether you wanted it to or not, and he felt himself flushing. Sarah prattled on unaware for thirty seconds before it stopped.

He managed to forget it, because at that moment the waiter stepped up and took their orders, and then they fell back to cheerful banter. Sarah even laughed when he began to tell her about one of the latest cases.

She was just becoming interested when the phone went off again, a short burst of vibration that indicated a text. He considered sliding it out to check, but it was probably Sherlock telling him something irritating, like to pick up milk. Or maybe it was something about a new case, in which case he'd be put in an awkward situation – ditch Sarah or risk annoying Sherlock. He ignored it.

The food was good and afterwards they had coffee. It was nice, sitting leisurely with someone who didn't talk about body parts constantly, even if she was a doctor. She had a sense of humour, and hadn't deleted things like last week's episode of The Apprentice from her memory.

When they'd finished he stepped outside to hail her a cab whilst she was in the toilets, intending to walk himself home, and he thought to check his phone. He had one missed call marked Sherlock, but he opened the text first.

He stared for a second, wondering if there was some kind of mistake. The text read:

_To: John Watson_

_From: Sherlock Holmes_

_7:53pm_

_Hekp/ joh_

He read it twice, and then hit speed-dial. The phone rang for a good twenty seconds before it was picked up.

"Sherlock?" he said. "Sherlock what was the-"

"_Oh, hello Jonathon." _Sherlock cut across him. His voice was perfectly normal, but since when had Sherlock called him Jonathon?

"Sherlock are you alright?"

"_Fine, _Jonathon." There was a definite stress on his name. "_Perfectly fine."_

"But the text?"

"_Experiment. I was bored; wanted to see if you'd come running any faster if you thought I was in trouble. Obviously not." _There was an edge of hurt in the smooth voice.

"It was on silent. I didn't realise you'd rung. You sure you're alright?"

"_Don't worry yourself Jonathon. Carry on with your date." _

"But…"

The phone clicked off. John left a message for Sarah at the reception, and then began to run.

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><p>The door to 221B looked perfectly fine. Mrs Hudson wasn't out in the street, there were no police cars. Even so John was uneasy; Sherlock's texts were always immaculately spelt, always with the trademark –SH at the end. Even if it was a test there was the fact he'd called him Jonathon. Maybe the whole thing was still part of the same experiment, but John wanted to be sure. He was a careful man, after all; better to look foolish and laugh about it later than…well…<p>

He tried the handle very slowly, still breathing heavily from the stairs; locked. He didn't know whether that was a good or a bad thing, but extracted his key from his pocket and slipped it into the lock. The click seemed horribly loud.

The flat was in disarray when he stepped through, but then again, the flat was always in disarray. There was no furniture upended, or smashed crockery that would have given him a clue, but Sherlock had been training him to see further…

There! The sofa was pushed slightly out of place – he could see the row of crumbs that hadn't yet been hoovered up, and the indents in the carpet. Of course, Sherlock could have moved the sofa by himself – it was only a few centimetres difference – but the man was notoriously lazy when it came to domestics. John deemed it unlikely.

As he headed upstairs his sense of unease increased; the flat was too quiet. Of course, he could have called out to Sherlock, but a soldier knew the importance the element of surprise. Getting up the stairs was hard, but he knew which ones creaked and where the carpet was thicker to cushion his footsteps.

The door to Sherlock's room was shut; his was wide open, just the way he'd left it. He peered through the gap between hinge and frame, but nothing seemed out of order. He entered and went straight for the drawer where he kept his gun without even turning on the light.

Once armed he felt better; he always did. Sherlock's door was like a target; his foot connected with a bang and the wood swung inwards, clattering off the hinges in a lopsided heap.

"Drop it!" John shouted. The man holding the gun started, and the weapon fell from his hand. Sherlock was lying on the bed, his hands bound behind his back and feet curled uselessly underneath him. There was a jagged cut in his temple, and John suppressed a grin; what had the idiot gotten himself into now?

Perhaps the gunman saw it, perhaps he was just crazy, desperate and lucky, but in a second he was across the room next to Sherlock, and something was glinting in his hand. John shouted and stepped further forwards, but it was too late. Stalemate.

"Really Jonathon," the blonde man said with a grin – one of his teeth was silver. "You should learn not to keep your medical supplies lying around where _anyone _could find them."

John looked more closely; what he'd taken to be a knife in the dim light was in fact a hypodermic syringe, full with a clear liquid. The tip was buried in Sherlock's arm, the man's finger on the plunger.

He felt a thrill of terror that came with a throbbing temple and racing heart; the only clear liquid he'd had in his kit was ketamine, in case he'd needed to operate on the field; he'd kept it in the first aid kit just as a precaution, although he wasn't entirely sure what the reason was for it. The amount in the syringe had to be three times the recommended dose; if Sherlock got that into him he'd fall asleep and never wake up.

"Always have a plan B, that's what he told me," said the man gently. "But Sherlock saw right through him. And he didn't even bother going to the police."

"That wasn't my fault," said Sherlock softly. "Your friend jumped of his own accord."

The needle jogged in Sherlock's arm, but the plunger stayed extended. "You chased him! You ran him all over London and you cornered him on that rooftop."

"Exactly what the police would have done." Sherlock was surprisingly nonchalant considering he was a finger-spasm away from death. John thought about shooting, but a body always reacted when shot, no matter where the bullet entered. Perhaps the needle would leave Sherlock's arm, or perhaps the fluid would be pumped into him. The chance wasn't worth taking, not yet.

The phone was lying on the bedside table – John imagined Sherlock, lying on the sofa, ringing him as soon as he realised he was in trouble and couldn't handle it on his own this time, then the text, maybe even as he was being tied up, pressing buttons desperately. The blow to the temple, the taking of the phone, and all the time he'd been waiting and John had been sitting in a restaurant eating _chicken_. The phone exchange, Sherlock with a gun to his head being forced to act normal…

"What I want to know," said Sherlock conversationally, "is why I'm not dead already. Why wait until good old Jonathon showed up?"

John twitched at the misuse of his name, but his mind raced; what was Sherlock trying to do?

"Because I needed your flatmate. He would have been your murderer if things had gone a little more to plan."

Sherlock's eyes widened a little. John ground his teeth and stepped forwards another pace. The man's thumb tightened a little on the plunger; his shoulders were so tense they were almost shaking.

"I will never harm Sherlock," said John. "No matter what you say or do, I will _not _hurt him."

"Oh come now; _you_ wouldn't have actually had to kill him."

"What then? What were you going to do?" Sherlock's voice was showing definite strain now. John tried not to let his fingers twitch in anticipation as the detective talked, kept the man talking.

"It doesn't matter now; Jonathon messed it up. You won't work out why though, because you'll be dead soon."

"I'll shoot you," said John softly. "I'll kill you."

The man shrugged. "I don't care."

Sherlock sighed. "He was more than your friend, wasn't he?"

The man twitched and John felt a thrill of exhilaration. The room seemed to be growing darker round the edges as his vision narrowed, focusing on the two figures near the bed.

"How did you-"

"Know?" Sherlock completed the sentence for him, and there was a cocky edge to his voice now as he showed off, demonstrating his fantastic deduction skills, doing what he did best. "You'll die for him even after he's gone. I know the feeling."

That threw John off guard, but he didn't have time to dwell on it, because he wasn't the only one unnerved; the man trembled and his grip slackened just that tiny bit.

John had his gun in position; he fired. The bullet travelled too fast for him to see, as always, but the change in grip that thrown him slightly off-aim; instead of smashing the plastic syringe and rendering it useless the bullet hit the man's hand with a soft squelch. His bones shattered and his fingers sprang apart.

The needle dropped to the floor, still whole. The man dived for it, leaving a smear of blood on the sheets as Sherlock scrambled away, rolling sideways and flopping off the edge of the bed. John fired again but there was an empty click (why on earth hadn't he replaced the bullets after the last gunfight anyway?)

He didn't linger on the fact he was losing his soldier's instincts and dived forwards instead, using sheer strength to move the man away from the syringe, no idea what was going on. It didn't feel right fighting a battle in the middle of Sherlock's bedroom.

The man kicked and the blow landed hard in his stomach; John curled in on himself with a gasp as the man got free, kicking him away for good measure. John rolled sideways with a groan and found his head level with the gun the man had dropped at the beginning, lying forgotten by the chest of drawers.

He rolled over and seized it, staggering to his feet only a few seconds after the man had and firing three times as he stood threateningly over Sherlock. The bullets went straight through and embedded in the wall, with a rather impressive blood splatter to go with them.

The attacker toppled sideways and slumped to the floor; John ignored him and stumbled forwards, dropping the gun. Sherlock was laying half-on and half-off the bed, very still, his lips pressed together tightly. John lifted him and wrenched the hand ties away.

It was only then he noticed the needle was sticking out of Sherlock's arm again.

For a second he wavered, then the doctor's instinct took over and he looked closely, dreading what he was going to see. The plunger was about a sixth of the way down.

John ripped the needle out and placed it on the bedside table, taking Sherlock's hand and tapping his wrist. Sherlock gave a shudder and his face contorted.

"John?"

"Yeah. Yeah, it's me."

Sherlock opened one eye, then the other. "How much?" he said hoarsely. "Will I-"

John put a reassuring arm around his shoulders and held him tight; they were both shivering. "Not enough, I don't think. You'll have a high resistance to drugs anyway, if you've done them in the past. You should be fine."

"I feel tired."

John smiled. "I didn't say it wouldn't have any affect; it should hit you in about a minute.."

Sherlock sighed and looked at the wall where there were three neat bullet holes. "They're going to blame me for this aren't they?"

John laughed, but his voice was a little high. "Don't worry; I'm sure Lestrade pays for the damages when a dangerous criminal is involved."

"Mmm."

"Not yet, try and stay awake a little longer, yeah? Tell me about the case before; what was he trying to achieve coming here?"

"He was…" Sherlock broke off and took a deep breath. "The other man, he was just embezzling. Then it got out of hand and he ended up killing someone – someone who was blackmailing him. I tracked him down and he ran. When he was cornered he jumped. Nothing more to it."

Sherlock was sagging further into John's side as he talked, and his words were beginning to slur. John knew that was normal – he would have expected the same if he'd administered ketamine on the field – but he couldn't stop a twinge of worry.

"And this one?"

"Lover. Boyfriend. Something like that. Broke in – I heard him, but I didn't get out in time – caught me, tied me up. He was going to kill me and frame you – what's what he meant by you being my killer. When you arrived back from the date, slightly drunk maybe, he was going to drug you and shoot me."

"I don't see how he would have managed to frame me."

"Put your fingerprints on the gun maybe; you wouldn't have been able to say how I'd ended up dead, which would have incriminated you to some extent. I'm not sure. He wasn't thinking it through very well I suppose; he might have been high. Even so it would have been bad."

"But it didn't work."

Sherlock gave a weak smile. "You got my message."

"Jonathon."

"Knew you would. Knew you'd ring back. You're cleverer than most of the idiots around."

"I'm sorry I didn't pay attention straight away." He paused. "I'll never leave my phone on silent again."

"At least he wasn't boring. I had to deduce almost everything; he didn't boast too much. I like a challenge."

"He didn't look like a killer."

Sherlock sighed and his head came to rest fully on John's shoulder. "He was in love."

John started. "What did you mean? You said you knew how he felt."

Sherlock didn't reply; his eyes were shut and his hand resting in John's lap. John laid him out on the bed in the recovery position, and then went to phone Lestrade.

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><p><strong>To be continued!<strong>

**Thanks for reading, reviews/constructive criticism welcome! **


	2. Trapped and Sinking

**As I said before - Sherlock whumpage. Warnings for yet another ridiculous plot. I found this one hard, and although I tried to explain how Sherlock was trapped as much as possible it might still be vague - sorry. I did my best.**

**AN - This is _not_ a spoiler for the pool scene in case any of you attack me. I have no idea how the pool scene will work out.**

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><p><strong>Trapped and Sinking<strong>

Moriarty turned as fast as a snake, running, laughing. Sherlock pulled the trigger and stood still; there was nothing he could do anyway and a second later the blast rocketed outwards in a scream of white noise, shattering the tiles into a crater around it.

He felt impact on his side and fell sideways, letting John push him away, towards the pool, waiting for the clear blue water and some kind of relief from the scorching heat that ate at his bare hands and wrists.

He fell hard, painfully, dropping the gun and flinging his arms out. The water wrapped softly around his arms and head and chest as he sank down, waiting for the moment he would touch the bottom and be able to right himself.

He had his eyes pressed shut against the chlorine, but even so it seemed to be taking an awfully long time for him to sink. There was a stabbing pain in both his feet, and another along his shin. He wondered briefly if he'd been shot, but the blast would have taken care of the snipers, standing above the bomb; the balconies would have collapsed almost immediately.

He left it a couple more seconds, and then decided to investigate the reason as the why he wasn't sinking normally. He flailed his arms and tried to break the surface, trying to work out which way he was going, but all that happened was water rushed into his nose and built a white line of pain behind his eyes.

He began to panic, twisting his feet, but they didn't move. He was choking, sinking, then rising, then bursting free for less than a second with a gasp that pulled drops of water into his mouth along with air, then back under the water before he even had time to work out what was happening.

Now though, he had an idea of what position he was in, and his arms moved more steadily, lifting his head further to the surface; he had to guess where it was, because everything was pitch dark under the water.

So he did what he did best; experiment. He deduced from the airflow pushing through the rips in his trousers that he was almost all in the water, but his feet and some of his legs were out of it, balanced on the side of the pool and trapped so he couldn't move them. Easy then; apply pressure to whatever had his feet and then he could right himself and swim to safety.

He bent his knees and sensed his upper body drift through the water, but whatever was trapping him didn't budge. He felt his shoes flex though, and he could move most of his toes, so it couldn't be too bad. He just needed to pull a little harder…

The need for oxygen drove him to the surface before he could try it, and he curled his stomach muscles, attempting a lopsided sit-up that gave him just enough time for a breath before he sank back down again, abdomen burning a little.

He rested for a second, his body floating naturally deeper until his legs were fully extended again. He could hold his breath on very little oxygen for about a minute, more if he could get a couple of proper breaths first.

The logical solution was the grab the side of the pool next time. Next time he would manage it.

His fingers slipped on the tiles and plunged him back into the water, and he made the mistake of trying again before his body had recovered from the sit-up, flopping back in exhaustion. He wasn't unfit, but anyone would have difficulty doing something as tricky as a sit-up without a solid base and with their legs trapped.

The third time he made it, fixing his nails into the cracks between the tiles and breathing deeply. The place stank of smoke and chlorine, and it was lit only by a couple of lasers, unattended and pointing at the ground. He coughed twice and spat water out of his mouth, then craned to see what exactly was wrong.

A block of stone had fallen on two smaller ones, forming a sort of lopsided bridge; his legs were trapped in the gap between the tiles and the bottom of the stone, and would have been crushed if it had been any lower. He could feel his feet on the other side, so they were clear, but they were too big to fit under the bridge, leaving him hanging, hooked by them. The block was heavy and didn't look like it would be moving any time soon, no matter how hard he pulled at it.

John.

If John hadn't come to help him now he must be in trouble. Sherlock's first instinct was the check the pool, but if he hadn't made it fully into the water there was no chance John would have. He forced his rationality into action and glanced around, eyes now adjusted and able to pick out dim shapes.

John was laying only a little way from the pool, on his side. Sherlock's heart pounded in his throat for a few seconds before he realised John was breathing, fairly heavily. He didn't look too badly injured; there were no darkening stains on the tiles or obvious breaks in the limbs Sherlock could see.

"John?" he called. His voice came out as a hoarse croak, throat burning from the chlorine. "John!"

John didn't react. Sherlock struggled, pulling his feet against the block as he could; hoping to slide it off the two smaller ones, but it was too heavy for him. Then his nails broke with a crack and he was plunged back into the water.

After that he couldn't get another grip; his newly shortened nails and the slippery surface wouldn't let him. When he got a better breath in he tried to tug the block forwards, but it was useless.

The sit-ups were getting harder, the amount of time he could keep his head above the water shortening every time he broke the surface. He had to contemplate how dreadfully unlucky he was; the chance of the blocks falling at exactly the right moment was nigh impossible.

This was not going to be a fun way to die, he reflected five sit-ups later, when his muscles were almost too weak to lift him again. He tried using just his arms to swim his way up and stay afloat, but the block was long and trapped him halfway up his shins, meaning no matter how hard he swam he could never quite get above the surface without curving his stomach.

He made renewed effort, and this time, when his head emerged, dripping out of the water, he didn't breathe in; instead he shouted "John!" before his muscles gave way and he flopped back down.

Now his lungs were completely empty; bubbles burst from his mouth in a scream as he fought for the surface again, flailing his arms in a way that, under any other circumstances, he would have berated himself for. He must look ridiculous.

He took a breath prematurely because he had no choice, and inhaled half a mouthful of water with the other half air, choked and went under again, fighting his way upwards, wriggling his legs in a way he knew was useless but couldn't stop himself doing.

A swell caused by his struggling lifted him at the right moment and he managed to take a proper gasp before sinking, leaving his brain with a little more room for thought. He had about a minute's time to think in before he'd become too weak to do the next push. The police wouldn't arrive for another half-hour he guessed, although he had no idea how long he'd been here. It felt like an hour, but it was probably only ten minutes.

Even if the police were called immediately they would be careful before entering the building. So long as nothing else collapsed John would be fine, even if Sherlock would have drowned long before then. The thought was very comforting.

_What on earth had he gotten into?_

His lungs were beginning to burn more ferociously than his stomach muscles, so he forced himself into action, getting a fairly decent rush of air before he was back under again. The future was a little more hopeful; maybe next time he could try another call. Maybe, just maybe, he could wait it out.

The next three breaths were disastrous. The future suddenly seemed very bleak. He contemplated John as he slipped back down. John wasn't coming. Maybe he was badly hurt, maybe he was never going to wake up, but spend the rest of his days strapped to a slowly beeping machine in a blank room.

He wished he'd amended his will sooner. He supposed Mrs Hudson would still get her share, but he would have liked John to have something. The skull maybe – John would have liked that.

He considered giving up, waiting until he was too weak and then just going to sleep, but he told himself, _one more, just one more breath, one more shout, and then I'll stop, then I'll give up. _

He was just getting back into the routine when things went from terrible to disastrous.

He'd misjudged it; finally he'd made a mistake, overestimating the power in his muscles and taking his breath too soon. Water rushed into his lungs with a sigh as it finally got its way and he fell backwards much faster this time, arms drifting out. He let himself to limp and tired, because he _was_ tired, so tired.

_Dear John, _he thought fuzzily. _I'll miss you. So much. _

Sentimental, foolish last thoughts, but they were comforting. Dying was so much easier when you just gave up and let the water fill your lungs. He watched the bubbles drift upwards, past his face in silver streaks, like tears falling the wrong way.

There was a movement above him, a second of gentle drifting, and then he was being hoisted out of the water and thrown onto something hard. Someone was scrabbling around him, and he could hear sounds but not understand what they meant. He tried to breathe, natural as he felt the cold air tickle his cheek, but found he couldn't.

Someone pounded on his back and he fell forwards – something arrested his fall with a jerk – and his muscles worked reflexively, but it seemed there was no getting the water out of his lungs now it was there. He choked on the substance that had before seemed so gentle, struggling to stay awake as white spots danced mockingly in front of his eyes.

A fist thudded into his chest and he choked and finally was able to cough, chucking water out of his lungs in a gush of warm liquid.

"You idiot," someone snarled, clasping him tightly. "What were you thinking asking him for a meeting? You complete, pompous ass, you idiot, you…if I'd been just a minute later…"

"Joh-" He was cut off by another burst of coughing that left him limp in John's arms. "John I'm s-s-sorry I…"

His teeth were chattering. John's arms tightened and he spun Sherlock round to look at him; there was a long cut over John's right eye and another on his cheek.

"John, how…"

"Thought I heard someone calling to me. Woke up, pried the block off with a plank as soon as I realised what was happening." They were moving, he realised, when had that started? He attempted to move his legs but failed miserably. "Dived into the water and saved you before you drowned."

"T-thanks."

"You're welcome." Sherlock might has well have been thanking him for passing his phone for all the worry that showed in his voice, but he could feel John's hands trembling, and knew he was just as terrified as he was.

"Where are we…?" He trailed off with a sigh, too tired to go on.

"Going? The hospital. You need at least three stitches in your leg, and I could do with a couple in my forehead."

"At…at home?"

John stared at him, blue eyes shining in the darkness. Sherlock tried to look past them and focus on his surroundings, but found it impossible.

"I'm an army doctor; I'm not in any fit state to deal with a case of dry drowning, which is probably what you're going to die of if we don't get you help soon." Sherlock drifted out for a couple of seconds, wrapping his arms tightly round John's chest and feeling the comforting warmth bleeding through their soaked clothes.

"I'm f-fine."

"You are _not _fine. Now stay the hell awake whilst we get to the hospital."

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><p><strong>To be continued! <strong>

**Thanks for reading - reviews****/constructive criticism welcome! Thanks to everyone who was so kind about my first chapter.**


	3. Impromptu Camping

**This one's not over-original, I'll admit, for which I apologise. Hope you like it anyway. Set between the end of the last chapter but before ASIB. No spoilers.**

**Warnings in the first chapter. No extra ones for this one, apart from one, pretty mild, swear word. If you do think of one please tell me.**

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><p><strong>Impromptu Camping <strong>

"John," said Sherlock conversationally. "We're going on an expedition tomorrow."

John looked at him shiftily from his afternoon cup of tea. "What do you mean by expedition?" If it involved body parts he wasn't going. No matter what Sherlock said.

"Lestrade's got a case up in the Lake District. He wants me to examine the bodies of three walkers and a dog that have been found up there. It's only a day's trip; five hours there, setting off at six, at the crime scene until ten in the evening, maximum, five hours back."

John winced at the idea of spending ten hours out of twenty-four in a car. "You go. I've got to stick with the surgery or Sarah's going to fire me." As if it wasn't bad enough she had broken up with him after the last fiasco. Obviously women didn't like being left in the middle of a restaurant, even if you were leaving to rescue your idiot of a flatmate.

Sherlock scowled. "I _need _an assistant. Besides, you're the best they've got at the surgery; they can't get rid of you, not when they pay you so little anyway."

John felt his cheeks go slightly pink at the surprise compliment, and for a second his guard wavered. Sherlock looked at him appealingly from the sofa. John put his head in his hands and groaned, running a finger along the scar above his eye.

"Alright. Fine. I'm going to regret this, I know it."

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><p>Twenty hours later John scowled and poked at the fire, cursing everything from the faulty car engine to Sherlock's puppy-eyes.<p>

The case had gone smoothly; the man responsible arrested within three hours. Sherlock had been dreadfully smug all the way back. John had been less smug, trapped in a stuffy car with Donovan on one side and Anderson on the other; Sherlock had, of course, nabbed the front seat for himself, and Lestrade spent half the journey slapping him on the wrist for fiddling with the radio.

They'd still been two hours away from London when the car had broken down. On a secluded country road, next to a forest, in the middle of the night. There was no signal for miles around, not even on John's phone. The five of them had managed to push the car onto the grass verge, and now Lestrade was tinkering with the engine, up to his wrists in black oil and getting crosser by the second. Anderson was hovering nearby, holding the torch and sulking, and Donovan huddled close to the flames, freezing in her short skirt. John would have recommended she stay in the car, but without the heater working it was little better than the outside.

John had been put to do the things Lestrade referred to as 'Scout Work' and he was fairly proud of what he'd achieved; a reasonable fire surrounded by stones and a good pile of firewood. Food would have been nice, but even with the torch he wouldn't have risked mushrooms. He peered through the trees but saw Lestrade waving his arms around in the air, so didn't hold out much hope they'd be getting out of the forest any time soon.

Donovan gave him a half-smile over the fire. "I'm sorry you got dragged into this. You aren't so bad, even if you hang around with Freak."

He laughed. "You shouldn't call him that you know."

"Speak for yourself." She held her hands over the fire and rubbed them together; John would have lent her his jumper if he'd had it, but the day had been sunny and warm, and he was only wearing a long-sleeved cotton shirt and nothing else, and he was loathe to go around topless. Lestrade and Anderson were in much the same position.

Sherlock took this opportune moment to sweep by with his nose in the air and John called out to him. "Hey! Sherlock!"

He turned immediately, pupils growing smaller as the light fell on his face. "John?"

"Lend Donovan your coat." Donovan opened her mouth to protest, but he shot her a glare.

Sherlock pulled the coat further around his chest, looking suspicious. "Why?"

"Why? Because she's bloody freezing that's why!" John glared. He was cross and tired and hungry and all he wanted was to make someone else feel better, and there was Sherlock, strutting around like he was above them all…the man was infuriating sometimes.

He rose to his feet and hoped he looked menacing even though Sherlock had more than a little height advantage. "Sherlock! I don't know whether this is one of your higher-functioning-sociopath things, but when someone's freezing to death it's nice to lend them a coat that you don't need as much as they do."

Sherlock looked shocked and guilty, and John felt a twinge of remorse, but crushed it; Sherlock was so like a child sometimes, and he had to learn he wasn't the only person in the world. John was his friend, but he was also a doctor; he liked to make people comfortable.

Sherlock looked a little longer at John's face, as if to see if he wasn't having some kind of joke. Donovan was staring at them both, wide-eyed and hesitant.

Eventually Sherlock unbuttoned the coat and shrugged it off. Underneath he was wearing a shirt with half-length sleeves, one John hadn't seen before. He supposed they were both at the dregs of their wardrobe, Sherlock having tried to do the washing just last week – the clothes still hadn't recovered.

Sherlock threw the coat at Donovan, the sleeve narrowly missing the fire, and stalked off. He had a strange pace to his step that made John think that if he'd been less proud he would have run. Donovan looked at the coat mournfully.

"You didn't have to do that. This thing's probably worth a fortune."

"The man thinks it's fine to shut all the warm water off in the flat for days at a time; I'm sure he can manage a little cold air."

She smiled as she pulled the coat around her shoulders. "What was that about him not being a freak?" There was less malice in the word than usual. John shook his head.

"I should go and look for him. He's probably deleted the route and got hopelessly lost." He stood up with a wince as his shoulder twinged and sent a fleeting spasm of pain through his arm and neck, and set off through the trees.

* * *

><p>Sherlock was surprisingly easy to find, perched on a small mound less than two minutes away from the fire with his arms wrapped around his knees, staring into the distance. John came to halt and just looked at him for a second; the moon filtered through the trees and slid off his unruly curls like water.<p>

"Sherlock?"

"John."

"I'm sorry I got angry, alright? I want you to come back to the fire before you get lost, but I'm not going to make her give the coat back."

"Fine."

John waited a few seconds but Sherlock gave no indication he was going to move. John decided he wasn't going to break first, so leaned stubbornly against a tree, glaring. His eyes strayed to the mound Sherlock was sitting on, which looked slightly familiar….

"Jesus Sherlock!" he shouted suddenly. Sherlock jumped upright, staring wildly. John dived forwards and dragged him back to the tree, brushing at his arms and legs to dislodge the ants that had begun to crawl up them.

Sherlock yelped and began to wave his hands, where the ants were clinging determinedly. John mushed several against his palm, and then stood back. Sherlock was ant-free, if breathing a little more heavily than usual.

"Sherlock, how long exactly were you sitting on an anthill for?"

Sherlock looked accusingly at the mound. "I didn't know it was an anthill."

"Obviously."

Sherlock pouted and scratched his hand, where three angry red bites were rising, visible by the light of the moon. John rolled his eyes and began to drag him back to the safety of the camp.

"Honestly, you might want to check for ants in future."

"I was thinking."

"Not hard enough obviously. Didn't you feel them?"

"They didn't want to bite me until you startled me, and them in the process."

John hit him playfully on the arm, still a little breathless; his temper had vanished in a second. Sherlock had that effect on him; he could be in a boiling rage one moment and smiling the next.

Donovan edged away nervously when they returned, but Sherlock merely ignored her, scratching absentmindedly at the ant bites. John slapped his hand away before he could break the skin and cause an infection.

They sat awkwardly around the fire for quarter of an hour, no-one daring to talk. Sherlock was fidgeting, unusual for him, shaking out his swollen hand and heaving large sighs alternately. Soon Donovan began to glare at him, but he ignored her, rubbing his eyes and pulling on his hair. John waited for the moment one of them would snap.

"I'm going to check on the others," said Donovan eventually, standing up. "Won't be long."

John nodded and threw another handful of branches on the fire. Sherlock looked at the dwindling pile with a critical eye. "I'll get more."

John almost let his mouth fall open. "What, you?"

"Yes, me. Surely even you don't think me incapable of such a simple task." There was a bite to the tone, sour and harsh.

John raised his hands. "Sorry, sorry. I was just surprised, that's all."

Sherlock swept off without another word, leaving John to bury his head in his hands for the second time that night. He checked his watch – two-thirty in the morning. He would have been fast asleep if he'd just stayed at home.

He considered sleeping on the floor – he'd suffered worse – but his shoulder was sore from sitting hunched so long and he hated to think of how it would be if he slept on the hard ground. Maybe he could go back to the car and lie on the back seats for a little…

Just imagining falling asleep made his eyes begin to close.

* * *

><p>He was dozing with his head resting on his hands when someone tapped him on the back. He leapt up with a yell, twisting round and almost standing in the flames.<p>

"Sorry!" Donovan cried, leaping back as well; John had almost punched her.

"No…god, sorry, I'm not myself." He sat back down, breathing heavily. "Old soldier's still in me."

She sat next to him with a smile. "I should have known better; I'll use a stick next time."

"Lovely."

There were footsteps behind them and Lestrade and Anderson thundered into view, panting slightly from the run. Lestrade had oil smeared in his hair, and Anderson held the torch limply at his side.

"It's fine!" John shouted before they could reach them, and they slowed. "I just got a shock when your sergeant crept up on me."

"You don't half yell loudly," muttered Lestrade. "We thought you were being murdered."

"Any luck with the car?"

Lestrade shrugged. "It's completely above my capabilities. We're going to keep a lookout for a driver and try to pull them over."

Donovan frowned. "You'll be lucky, this time of night. Maybe if we-"

She was cut off when Sherlock came skidding into the clearing, dropping firewood behind him. His arms were scratched, his bitten hand swollen and puffy.

"John!" he shouted. "John are you alright I heard shouting, I-" His eyes were wide and staring, his chest heaving unnaturally.

John strode over to him and gripped his shoulders. "Sherlock, calm down, I'm fine."

"John…"

"Sherlock, what's wrong?" He automatically put a hand to Sherlock's pulse, and found the rate double it should have been; even taking into account the way the man had just been running. "Sherlock?"

Lestrade walked up to them and touched John's arm, but he shrugged him off, staring intently at Sherlock's face. The consulting detective's pupils were blown wide, and there were red marks on his cheeks and forehead, hard to see in the dim light but there all the same.

"Sherlock, how do you feel?"

"John…"

"I'm here. I need you to talk to me."

Sherlock blinked a few times, then suddenly his eyes rolled back and he fell to his knees. John went down with him, trying to support them both; his elbow crunched against the ground with a painful jolt.

"What's happening to him?" said Lestrade, failing to hide his panic. Anderson and Donovan were hovering uncertainly, looking scared.

"I don't know…" John muttered. "God, I don't know. Sherlock? Sherlock!"

Sherlock's face flickered and creased into a frown; his breathing was too fast, laboured but shallow at the same time. John pushed Sherlock upright and shoved his head between his knees.

"John." There was something wrong with his voice, as if his mouth was stuffed with tissues. "John, where's John?"

"I'm here Sherlock. I'm right here."

"John…"

Sherlock's voice trailed off again, and John tipped his head up, examining first his eyes and then his mouth by the firelight. His tongue was swollen and heavy-looking, and as John glanced from it to the puffed up hand it suddenly fell into place.

"Sherlock, are you allergic to ants?"

"Want John. Go 'way Mycroft." Sherlock twisted and tried to stand, but fell immediately. John rolled them over and they ended up sitting with Sherlock's head in John's lap, John holding him tightly.

"Sherlock!"

Sherlock lifted a hand and rubbed at his eye. "You 'lready know Mycroft. Wasps. Bees."

"_Ants _Sherlock, I'm asking you if you're allergic to _ants_."

"Get John. John'll know."

John groaned and rested his forehead against Sherlock's for a second, before straightening up. Lestrade was biting his lip, Donovan moving closer. Anderson came running with the first-aid kit clutched in his hand; John hadn't even realised he'd left in the first place.

"Will any of this help?"

John flicked the plastic clips off and looked inside, mind racing as he wondered how exactly he could deal with this. Sherlock was limp in his lap, still breathing heavily and muttering something unintelligible. He rooted through bandages and plasters and bottles of antiseptic, but there was nothing there he could use, no adrenalin (of course – why would there be?).

"John?" said Lestrade hoarsely. "John what do we do?"

"EpiPen," John heard himself replying. "He's got to have one. If he's allergic to wasps and was going to the lakes, then even he can't have been such an idiot as to leave it behind. Hopefully it'll buy him some time."

Lestrade looked doubtful, but nodded, beginning to rifle through Sherlock's pockets. Anderson stood up. "I'm going to see if I can get help," he said. "There's _got _to be a car along here somewhere."

John nodded. Donovan ripped off Sherlock's coat and shook it upside-down, but dislodged nothing but a biro and some nicotine patches. John crawled free of Sherlock and emptied the medical case onto the grass, maybe Sherlock had put it there, maybe…

Lestrade shook his head. "Nothing."

Donovan had a look of despair on her face. "It's not in the coat."

"The car!" said John, leaping up. Sherlock suddenly gave a gasp and gripped his ankle, nearly yanking him off balance.

"John…don't go, John…Mycroft…John…"

He shook his leg free, seeing how Sherlock's lips were slightly blue in the firelight, his breathing weaker. John began to run, his legs building up a rhythm as he pounded through the trees, leaping over stumps and logs he would have been wary of usually, feeling as if there were springs on his feet propelling him at twice the speed. He could hear Lestrade running with him, already reaching into his pocket for the keys. The lights flashed and John yanked open the passenger door whilst Lestrade dived into the back.

His fingers slipped on the plastic, sweating and stinging, as he scrabbled around for the medicine. He grasped something and his heart gave a leap, but it was only a normal pen.

His legs were twisted awkwardly under him, head brushing the ceiling as his eyes darted around. Every second was far too long, every heartbeat getting fainter and fainter until Sherlock just faded away…

He looked up and there, the compartments at the top. He pressed all three at once and they hissed open; the first contained only polo mints, but in the second something rolled off with a clatter and dropped between the seats.

John swore and plunged his arm down the gap, brushing his fingers along the bottom in one sweep. There it was, lodged in the various plastic bobbles and wheels, and he grasped it and yanked it out with a shout of "got it!" to Lestrade, and set off running before the inspector could register what was happening.

The journey through the forest was torture, his chest burning from the exercise. Donovan was leaning over Sherlock, her hair falling in his face, and for a second he feared the worst, but she looked up, saw him, and her eyes were dry.

"Hurry!" she shouted. "Hurry, I can barely hear him…"

John ripped the top off the pen, pausing for less than a second to check the name on the side – Sherlock Holmes, written in a messy scrawl. His brain whizzed furiously and he thanked goodness he was a doctor – reading the tiny instructions would have taken too long. He ripped the top off the pen and rammed it through Sherlock's trousers, into his thigh, counting to ten slowly.

Lestrade caught up with them, chest heaving and cheeks red. Sherlock gave a low groan and sat up, pushing Donovan away and reaching for John's hand, gripping it tightly. The swollen one was cradled to his chest, and his head lolled sideways onto John's shoulder. John held him gently and automatically began to stroke his hair, remembering Harry when she'd been roaring drunk and falling asleep.

"Mycroft…"

"I'm _John _Sherlock. Over there's Donovan, and Lestrade. Anderson's got to get help. Imagine that."

"Mycroft, please, don't…"

John sighed and pulled Sherlock a little closer to his chest. Lestrade squatted down and felt his pulse.

"It's getting better. What…what is he talking about?"

John shook his head. "I don't know. God, I don't know." He was almost crying; he could feel his throat tightening and aching; if Sherlock had collapsed in the forest instead of next to the fire…if Donovan hadn't made him shout, if he'd not been able to find the pen, if Sherlock had left it at home…he was almost too late, again, too late…

The thoughts were crowding in his head, making it ache. Sherlock turned his head with a mumble, but his breathing was stronger and more even.

"What did he say to you Sally?" Lestrade said, turning to Donovan and cutting through John's thoughts. She brought Sherlock's coat forwards and wrapped it around him.

"I can't tell you. Things he wouldn't have said if he'd been in his right mind." She shook her head. "I didn't even understand half of it."

Sherlock coughed and sat up straighter, his hair tickling John's cheek. John's attention immediately re-focused on the detective, and he patted him on the back, rubbing soothing circles through the thin shirt.

* * *

><p><strong>Just a note - I won't be updating until the end of the new series, just so I can make sure everything adds up with what the canon says. <strong>

**Thanks for reading! Reviews/constructive criticism welcome, as always; you've been very kind so far.**

**To be continued. **


	4. Sleeper

**Sorry for the late update, thanks for being patient.**

**Set post-scandal but pre-hound. Warnings for some very mild swearing and fairly vague medical knowledge. And, of course, whumpage. **

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><p><strong>Sleeper<strong>

Flipping channels was so _boring_, Sherlock thought grumpily. Where was John anyway? He said he was only going to pick up milk and surely it didn't take that long to do such a simple task…

He settled on some kind of dating show with a row of orange-faced women and tried to deduce as much as he could from them in the time it took for them to advertise their good aspects. It wasn't much of a challenge; the way they dressed alone was enough to tell him there was nothing interesting going on in their lives.

There was a squeak as the door was pushed open and he turned to see John stride through, glaring, with the milk clutched in his hands – his expression screamed an argument with a chip-n-pin machine, and possibly customer services afterwards. Now was not the time to break the news; if he waited for John to sit down first…

John threw the milk into the fridge and plunked himself down in the armchair, staring at the television without actually seeing what was there. The show cut to an advert break and Sherlock, his concentration already wavering now that John was there, turned on the sofa.

"John…"

John sighed. "Yes Sherlock?"

"I _may _have managed to burn a hole in the middle of my bed."

John blinked exactly four times, and then sighed. Again. "I'm not even going to ask." Probably a good thing; Sherlock always felt a little guilty when lying to John, but he wasn't prepared to tell him exactly what he'd been mixing in there; four of the substances were illegal and three leaning slightly towards deadly.

"Just to warn you not to go in until it's aired out. I'll sleep on the sofa." He glanced at John, wondering if he was going to give way. An advert for toothpaste popped up on the screen in front of them.

John didn't seem to be getting the hint. Sherlock shifted, as if his back was sore. John firmly ignored him, so he pouted for a little before deciding social niceties such as politeness had never got in his way before and he didn't see why they should now.

"Can I sleep with you tonight John?"

John started, dislodging a book from the arm of the chair. He bent to retrieve it, and by the time he'd straightened up there was a determined look on his face Sherlock knew would be very hard to break.

"No Sherlock. You burnt the bed; you sleep on the sofa. You barely ever sleep in bed anyway.

"It's cold tonight."

That much was true; the winter temperatures were well below freezing, and the streets would soon be iced up.

"It's your own fault."

Sherlock didn't mind admitting he was a little surprised; John was usually happy to go along with much crazier schemes than sharing a bed for a night. Sherlock didn't know exactly why he did want to sleep with John tonight, but he knew it was something people sometimes did. He wanted to _try _it. He wanted to prove he wasn't afraid, like everyone thought he was; Mycroft and Irene and the whole lot of them.

He turned to look at John, allowing his eyes to go very slightly wider then usual.

John sighed – the man liked sighing to prove his points, and Sherlock didn't mind; it was better than the insults most people hurled his way. "It's not that I'm being mean, Sherlock; I'm an ex-soldier. I still have nightmares sometimes, and I can get violent. You wouldn't get a wink of sleep."

Sherlock had deduced that John had his nightmares about once a week, and he'd already had one on Monday. Today was only Wednesday. He said as much aloud and watched John's eyebrows rise a little with a hint of satisfaction.

John threw his arms up; "You know what? Fine. So help me, if I punch you in the face you can't say I didn't warn you."

Sherlock settled back with a grin and continued watching the telly. The adverts were nearly over; he really didn't want to purchase a red car, or life insurance. Mycroft had made sure he already had the latter.

The smiling lady selling perfume was replaced suddenly by a virtual jungle with letters flying across the screen. Soldiers were moving quickly through it, breaking into a full run as they reached open ground. He didn't like video games; the people in them were impossible to deduce, they didn't have all those little details that mattered to him so much. No-one thought to put a chip in a man's watch, or a certain ribbon in a woman's hair, just for his advantage.

John was staring at the screen, his eyes darting, and Sherlock was just beginning to work out what was wrong when suddenly a man trod on a landmine and went up in a burst of flame. John leapt in the air and scrambled back in his chair, covering his eyes.

"Turn it off!" he shouted. "Turn it off!"

Sherlock fumbled for the remote and the screen faded to black. John removed his hands with a shudder.

"Sorry. It's just…I knew someone, good man…he went up just like that. Right in front of me."

Sherlock leaned over gently put his hands on John's. "That's alright. They shouldn't show those things without a warning first."

John shook his head. "It's fine. That one just…stood out a bit more than the others. He was talking, not to me, to the person next to him. We weren't even in a dangerous zone, or so we thought. He told a joke." John gave a weak smile. "For the life of me I can't remember what it was, but it was funny. One minute he was laughing, the next, boom. The rest of us only just got away." He laughed. "I love how I can survive Moriarty blowing bombs up in our face without ill effects, and not something like that.

Sherlock shook his head, gripping John's hands tighter and savouring the short amount of time he would be able to do this, with permission. He liked it, even if he still wasn't sure why. John's hands were fascinating.

"You cared for him; that's good. People do terrible things John."

"Don't we know it?" John sighed. "Come on; you'll have to go to bed at the same time as me, I'm not having you waking me up in the middle of the night."

Sherlock nodded and went into his own room, which still smelled very strongly of soot and sulphur, slipped on some pyjamas whilst holding his breath and headed to John's room. It hadn't changed much since he'd last been in – there were still the same messy piles of books by the bed and the meticulously folded clothes, two clashing habits.

John came back through smelling of toothpaste and slid into the side of the bed that pressed up against the wall without a word. He looked slightly awkward about the whole thing.

Sherlock flicked off the light and slipped under the covers, as far away from John as possible, even though that wasn't what he wanted. John would be alarmed if he came too close, he felt.

They lay in silence for a long time, the room silent apart from the sounds of breathing and clunking pipes.

"Sherlock?"

Sherlock snapped to attention; John sounded half-asleep. "Yes?"

"When we were in the lakes…" Sherlock felt embarrassment well up inside his chest; he'd been an idiot not realising that he might be allergic to ants as well as wasps and bees. Now everyone knew about his weakness.

"Yes?"

"You said some things to Donovan. About…well she wouldn't tell us. And that's between you and her. But you kept calling me Mycroft and I just wondered why."

The last words came out in a sleepy rush, as if John were afraid of asking. The lakes had been months ago, back in the summer, and yet John was choosing now to ask? Was it the kind of thing he thought about just before he fell asleep?

He thought back to how he'd felt when he'd been slipping away from them all. It had been…scary. His whole body had been in pain, feeling sick. It had been just like when they'd taken him off the drugs, the dizziness and the aching and the tightness in his chest, but that slight pressure on his fingers, like an anchor.

Just like the times when Mycroft had come and looked at him despairingly, but held his hand all the same.

There then, was John's answer. Sherlock debated whether to give it or not, but before he could there was a soft snuffling snore from behind him as John gave in and fell asleep.

Sherlock suppressed a smile, but he still wasn't sure what he would have told John. The times before he'd got into his work had been…strange. Mycroft had been there, but in that oddly superior way that irritated him.

John was slipping deeper into sleep, his breathing evening out. Sherlock was a light sleeper, at least when he wasn't exhausted from a case. After the adrenaline had worn off he could sleep for more than a day, in any place, much to John's disapproval, but when he wasn't working going to bed at a conventional time was too much of a novelty for him to be able to drop off. Very gently he turned over; John was lying with his back to the wall, facing Sherlock, and his face was peaceful, as far as he could make out in the darkness. Sherlock looked at him for a few seconds, and then realised John would probably consider the fact creepy, and quickly flipped over again.

He liked John. He wanted John to stay forever.

John wouldn't stay, not forever. But he was here now, for a while. He'd stopped seeing Sarah, and all those other women; none of them had lasted very long. Sherlock knew that some of them were his fault, and that eventually John was going to get angry with him, but he couldn't bear to have them around. They were annoying. They got their hands all over him, his John, John in his silly jumpers and casual shoes and Sherlock didn't like that.

He moved back slightly, just that little closer, but still not close enough to touch, and fell asleep curled into a tight ball.

* * *

><p>He woke much faster than he'd fallen asleep, springing upright with the idea strong in his mind that something was <em>wrong<em>.

John was thrashing and twitching, tossing and turning, his back no longer pressed against the wall. His face was upturned, and he was frowning, shaking.

Sherlock felt a tug of unhappiness that John was scared, and reached out gently to wake him, pressing a hand into his shoulder softly. "John. Wake up John, it's not real."

John muttered something and carried on. Sherlock shook his shoulder – the good one – a little harder and waited.

He expected John to wake up, or calm down. What he didn't expect was for John to shoot both his hands up and fasten them around his neck.

He choked in surprise, attempting reflexively to suck in air, but John's grip was too tight; a soldier's grasp, effective and final. His eyes were open, but blank and empty, devoid of that consciousness that usually hovered around the edges of people's pupils. He looked awake, but he wasn't; he couldn't be.

Sherlock tried to pull away, jerking his neck in John's hands, but it was useless. John began to squeeze tighter and Sherlock thrashed and struggled, whipping his head round in an attempt to dislodge himself from the grip, but failed. This wasn't right; John didn't hurt people, not unless they were hurting people he cared for. John was friendly, nice John who put up with Sherlock leaving a liver in the fridge for several days and didn't complain at being dragged around London at two in the morning.

There was such a look of savagery on John's face it scared him more than the hands did. He reached up and clawed at the things, but even digging his nails in didn't work; the blood was rushing out of his limbs and head and he felt himself slide down the bed a little.

"Joh-" he choked out. Even forming one syllable was a supreme effort; it felt like his windpipe was being crushed in on itself. He tried again but it came out in a silent croak that was no use at all.

He tried to remember the things he knew about strangulation, but his mind was going blank, almost in a nice way. It would be easy to let his legs go limp and sprawl down over John's warm form. John would find him there in the morning, but it seemed there wasn't much he was going to be able to do about it.

He was flagging, almost paralysed. He couldn't just lie here until morning; John would hate to see him like that. He attempted to breathe through his nose instead, but it didn't work, so he flexed his stomach in and out a couple of times, sloshing what was left of his oxygen up and around his body. It gave him a small window of time; his body shifted and his knee came to rest on John's leg. It gave him an idea. Not a pleasant one, but he didn't have much choice.

He drove his knee upwards, into John's groin. The intention wasn't to hurt John, just to wake him, and the strength was rolling out of his limbs anyway – he didn't know whether his eyes were closed or he just couldn't see any more – and for a heartbeat he thought it hadn't worked.

And then it happened; John gave a yell and shot upright in the bed, scrambling backwards. "Sherlock! What the bloody hell are you doing?"

Sherlock could barely hear him through ears that felt like they'd been stuffed with cotton wool; he breathed in, gasping, and rolled away, over the edge of the bed and onto the floor with a thump. He lay on his side, just breathing. He'd called it boring before, but not even when he'd nearly drowned had he desired it so much; his neck and throat were so sore it was almost impossible to force the air into his lungs, which just made him hungry for more. He'd done this before, and he knew that if he just lay there and tried to breathe it would be alright.

The bedside lamp went on and John swam into his line of vision, peering over at him in concern. "Are you alright? Sherlock?" John's eyes were so worried, shocked; he had no idea. "Answer me!" There was a thud as John joined him on the carpet, reaching for him. "Are you choking? Just nod if you are."

Sherlock shook his head. He could breathe again now, and he dragged air down with a sigh. "I'm fine John." His voice came out as a croak that provoked a cough that left his throat burning. "Fine."

John was staring at his neck, his mouth open; he looked horrified as the knowledge began to piece together, and his eyes strayed automatically to his hands. Sherlock knew he could see the scrapes and scratches on them, the desperate clawing of a dying man. But it was alright really, because John hadn't meant to hurt him.

John looked like he was going to cry so Sherlock stepped in, resisting the urge to massage his neck. "You were dreaming. Not your fault." His voice tailed off towards the end and he coughed again, despite his best efforts not to.

"Sherlock…" John probed at his neck, eying the injuries like the doctor he was. "I did that?"

He nodded shortly. "It's probably not as bad as it looks. I bruise easily." That was a lie, but it was a necessary one.

"How long was I holding your neck for?"

Sherlock pursed his lips. "I don't know."

"Sherlock!" John's voice was commanding and angry. Sherlock sat back with a sigh, defeated; he was too tired and sore for this now. John was crouching in front of him, looking so wretched Sherlock reached out to him; the doctor flinched away. It was like a strange role reversal, where John was more in shock than him, the person who'd been attacked.

"Nearly long enough for me to lose consciousness; I had to kick you to wake you up, I'm sorry…" John buried his face in his hands with a groan; Sherlock hurried on. "It was my own fault; I tried to wake you. I should never have done that, not when I knew what might happen."

John ignored him, still with one hand pressed against his forehead. "I dreamt it; I dreamt someone was attacking me, so I reached out and I kept squeezing and squeezing and all along it was you…"

"It was just a…misunderstanding…"

John leapt to his feet, throwing his arms out and beginning to pace. "Misunderstanding? Sherlock I nearly killed you! Look at your neck!" He pushed him towards the mirror and stood there, looking agonised. Sherlock ran a finger over the marks on his throat, bright purple and swelling. There was a red fingernail mark near his windpipe, and another just under his ear.

"It looks worse than it is."

John shook his head. "No. No, I can't do this. Imagine if I'd woken up and found you there…staring at me, just looking…" He shook his head, shoulders trembling. "And what were you thinking, worrying about _you _hurting _me_? You could have died!"

"John…"

"I'm going back to the psychiatrist."

Sherlock turned to him. "It was just that advert, you said it yourself. You warned me; you said you could get violent and I didn't listen."

"I thought I might toss and turn a bit! I didn't think I'd end up nearly bloody murdering you! I'm ringing her first thing in the morning, and I'm going to be watching you tonight. You're not allowed to go to sleep, you hear me?"

Sherlock frowned, mind whirring. He'd been strangled lots of times - he could manage. John glared back at him, arms folded. "What?"

"Why would you want to watch over me?" His throat burned again and he stifled a cough, eyes watering.

"Because, Sherlock, I don't know how much I've injured you, and if your throat starts to close up because of damaged tissue I want to be able to get you to a hospital." He sighed and swiped a hand over his eyes. "I should be taking you to a hospital right now."

Sherlock felt a slight shock run through him as the less rational part of his brain leapt to the stupid idea that John would be convicted if the injuries were reported. They wouldn't understand, he was sure, they'd think it was deliberate, that the whole story was a lie to cover up some kind of domestic abuse; his heart sped up as he imagined John locked away from him forever, sitting in the dark...

John knelt by him and gingerly put a hand on his shoulder. "It's alright. The chances aren't that big, and I'll get you some lemon and honey to keep down the swelling. So long as you stay awake for a few hours and I keep checking in on you everything will be fine." John's voice rose at the end, too high and tight, and Sherlock thought he really was going to cry this time, but at the last second John took a deep breath and swallowed it away. "I'll be back in a minute."

Sherlock didn't bother to argue, but he caught onto John's pyjama sleeve as the doctor stood up to go. "I'm not...I'm not angry you know. I know you didn't mean to; I can't blame you."

John pulled his arm away, but there was a slight flicker of a smile around his mouth and he looked relieved. "You should. If I'd stopped dreaming just a few seconds later…"

His words trailed off as Sherlock watched his retreating back.

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><p><strong>AN: People do actually sometimes look awake when they're dreaming, because my brother used to do it - he'd walk around looking entirely normal, but he was completely asleep. The advert mentioned isn't one that I know of, but I hope you get the picture.<strong>

**Thanks for reading, reviews still welcome.**

**To be continued! **


	5. Porcelain and Steel

**Note: On the advice of ****Elionwyn I've made a slight change to the end of the fourth chapter, so if you're bothered you might want to go and re-read the ending.**

**I'm not happy with this chapter. At all. But I've been over it about twenty times and can't work out why, so it'll have to do.**

**Warnings for: Suicidal themes, drugs, more angst than usual. Post-hound, pre-fall.**

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><p><strong>Porcelain and Steel <strong>

Sherlock felt heavy and light at the same time, sitting on the edge of the bath. The white porcelain stared at him, bland, boring, broken. It was cracked in the corner, and at the side; one from before he'd moved there, one from when he'd dropped a flowerpot and smashed the edge. Mrs Hudson had not been happy.

He sat with the syringe poised above his arm and waited.

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><p><em>John had been angry about the hound. Understandable. Sherlock had thought it would all be alright – that John would just make jabs at him for being wrong about the sugar, and leave it.<em>

_It seemed, at first, that he'd been right; John didn't say anything more about it until they were back in London, sitting in the flat – the place Sherlock always considered safe. _

"_Sherlock…listen…"_

_He should have listened – usually he did, usually John could make him listen, but at the moment he was just thinking something through about the case, just something that was niggling at the back of his mind…_

"_I want to say that I'm not happy about what you did to me in that room. And if you _ever_ try something like that again…are you listening?"_

_He could see it now, the exact second where he went wrong. All he had to do was grasp that niggle… "Mmmm." _

_John gave angry sort of snarl that had him snapping to attention, but too late. He'd almost stamped his foot; Sherlock could see it in his face and the way he held himself. John stormed into his own room and slammed the door, but he did that sometimes, and Sherlock was used to it. He went to the kettle and decided to try and make some tea to placate John…then again, perhaps getting him a drink wasn't the best idea._

_He returned to the lounge and sat on the sofa, waiting, thinking it would be alright._

_It was so much worse than he ever could have guessed._

_John didn't even say anything; when he came back down he was carrying a suitcase, and Sherlock knew it contained almost everything he owned because John didn't have that many possessions, and the thing was bulging. When he realised he leapt to his feet, ready to call after, but John was faster and by the time he reached the bottom of the stairs the doctor's back was disappearing into a taxi._

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><p>He didn't really know what he was waiting for. For John to come back? No, John wasn't coming back; he hadn't even forgotten his soap, or razor. The only things left were the jam in the fridge and a single jumper, forgotten on the radiator.<p>

Sherlock didn't understand. He'd seen it coming for weeks, months, ever since John had first moved in, that one day his patience would snap, and he hadn't done anything to stop it.

He could see the jumper, hanging forlornly over the radiator in the hall, the striped blue and white one. It was looking at him, so he kicked the bathroom door shut. He could see everything, could tell from the clues surrounding him what items John had packed first, and the mirror and the sink still told him how John had gone about his morning routine, but it was all useless, pointless information staring at him and mocking.

John would have gone to his Sarah's; they still saw each other when they were working, on the few days John went to the surgery. He knew she would let him in; he'd be all alone in the darkness, angry at his flatmate, just like the lost puppy he knew she wouldn't be able to resist. They would gossip about him for hours, maybe in front of the television, with a takeaway. She would make him sleep on the sofa the first night, out of convention, but as time went on…

Well…

The steel needle was icy against his wrist still, not heating up. He supposed his skin was cold.

He'd done this before, but he'd been careful. Mostly. Mycroft had searched the entire flat when he'd found out, taken everything away and forced him through a difficult withdrawal, but he'd missed this one, tiny syringe. Sherlock had kept it for that reason alone, the little triumph over his brother, but now he could use it; his body was begging him for it as it never had before, not even on a difficult case when he'd probably needed it to speed up his thinking, not even when he'd been in agony with a broken wrist and knife cut, a long time ago, alone.

Now though, now he was almost thirsty to make it go away. Just pump the whole lot into him, as fast as he could manage; feel the steel stab into him and the long flow of liquid relief. His thoughts would speed up for a little, but then his heart would stop and there would be nothing. Part of him was selfish, vindictive, hoping John would feel guilty if he found out what Sherlock had done. But most of him was empty.

He'd lost John. Lost him forever over something so stupid he couldn't comprehend and it hurt.

God, it hurt.

It hurt more than it had with The Woman. She had been interesting and exiting, new, and he'd been sad to lose that. He'd been distracted, unhappy, because he felt he might have lost something important. He'd been wrong, of course. And it had never made him feel this way.

He hadn't wanted to cry for years.

It was the thought of being alone that he couldn't cope with, the thought of being left without the voice or the smile or the hundred little things he should have been aware of. He'd let himself grow complacent, taken things for granted. He shouldn't have…they were right, all of them. He was a pathetic and reckless man who had no idea how to feel; John had been so scared and he had sat there with his feet on the desk, terrifying him.

At the time he'd been caught up in the excitement of the case, and he'd done something stupid, something he was sure not even Anderson would have done. Things always seemed alright at the time, and before he hadn't usually cared enough to feel this…guilt. Never so intensely.

He had finally pushed John away, forever, and he couldn't bear it.

His heart fluttered and raced, spreading a pool of aching apprehension down to his clenched his fingers around the plunger, ready to push down, slowly, and feel the life leach out of him, his heart beating and beating until it couldn't keep up. Maybe he would stay there for weeks, until Mrs Hudson realised no-one had emerged from the flat for a month.

His finger was just about to stab down when there was a clatter from downstairs. Sherlock jumped, almost injecting himself by accident, and then there were footsteps coming up the stairs, very slightly uneven.

"Sherlock!" someone called and he knew it was John now, even if he'd guessed before and just hadn't dared hope…

He had just enough time to kick the syringe under the bath before the door swung open and John charged in. Sherlock stared at him, and it was only now he realised the world was slightly out of focus. He must have been staring at his arm too long.

John knelt down by him and touched his forehead and temple, then looked into his eyes. Sherlock wondered if the world had gone crazy. Wondered if John was going to kiss him. Hoped John was going to kiss him.

But no; John pulled back, shaking his head, and held out a hand for Sherlock to take.

"Are you alright?"

Sherlock blinked and took the hand, wondering what was going on. "Yes…I'm fine…what? You came back." Sherlock allowed John to lead him out of the bathroom, brushing past the striped jumper, which seemed a little less irritating all of a sudden.

John rolled his eyes. "Of course I came back; I always come back, god help me." He was wittering too cheerfully, as if the last hour hadn't happened, as if he really had forgotten; only he kept a hold on Sherlock's hand as they reached the top of the stairs.

"Besides," the doctor continued. "Can't leave you alone. You might do something stupid."

Mycroft. Mycroft must have called John, and John had panicked and come back. And much as he disliked his brother he had to admit the man knew him, and it annoyed him a little.

But Mycroft had made John come _back_.

He felt strange and heavy, and he wondered if he was coming down with something; not that he'd let it stop him. Then he looked back at the bathroom, and fancied he saw the glint of steel from underneath the bath.

Something stupid indeed.

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><p><strong>Thanks for reading, reviews still welcome.<strong>

**To be continued!**


	6. Right On Time

**Here's the last one! Thanks for your support so far. Reviews and constructive criticism still welcome!**

**Warnings: Excessive fluff. Post-hound, pre-fall.**

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><p><strong>Right On Time<strong>

John was sitting, just relaxing and reading, when Sherlock suddenly bounded in, looking happier than he had in a long time. John was been about to ask what new crime scene they had to visit when the consulting detective grabbed the television remote and turned to a channel. The opening credits for Doctor Who were just rolling onto the screen.

John jumped and looked at the time, realising he'd lost track. A few minutes later and he would have missed it…

Sherlock smiled at him sweetly. "Wouldn't want you to be grumpy because of that terrible memory of yours would we?"

John rolled his eyes. "You hate Doctor Who."

"But you don't."

A steaming cup of tea was pressed into his hands, and then Sherlock came and curled up beside him on the sofa, pressing far too close to him to be decent. Still, he'd just given him tea, so John cut him some slack.

The tea tasted good, actually. It didn't taste of soap, like the last time Sherlock had made it, or acid like it had the time before (thank goodness he'd only had one sip and spat the whole thing out). In fact, it was perfect.

He turned his attention away from the programme for a second; Sherlock's head was leaning on his shoulder, and despite the distaste he'd expressed in the past his eyes were watching the screen with slight interest. John suddenly realised he was missing the plot, so he looked back, and quickly forgot everything.

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><p>By the time it finished Sherlock had fallen asleep against his shoulder; John hadn't even noticed. Tentatively he pushed his cold tea onto a table and eased Sherlock very gently off him; the man was tired after a long case last week, which neither of them had fully recovered from yet, but he was desperate to pee, and it was hard to move over with his legs still crossed and an armful of consulting detective. His elbow jogged, catching Sherlock in the leg and for a second he froze, waiting…<p>

Sherlock muttered something and turned over, burying his head into John's chest and wrapping his arms awkwardly around them. John groaned as Sherlock's weight rested on his already full bladder.

"Come on," he muttered, trying to pry the man off him. "Come on, you can sleep later, just let me pee…"

Sherlock only clung tighter, his fingers wrapping around John's shoulders and holding firmly. John shook his head in disbelief; how the man could feel safe to sleep anywhere near him after the first time was a mystery. He'd been prescribed some sleeping pills (which he rarely took) and some calming exercises to do before bed (which he always did) and she told him he was making progress. He wasn't entirely sure if he trusted her.

Sherlock suddenly twitched and his grip slackened; John seized the opportunity and made a dash for the toilet as silently as possible.

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><p>When he returned it was to find Sherlock had latched onto a cushion instead, cradling it close to his chest like a teddy; it made him wonder if Sherlock had ever had a soft toy as a child. To judge from the way he and Mycroft had turned out, probably not.<p>

He perched on the arm of the sofa and pulled the blanket he'd brought down over Sherlock, and then pushed the curly hair out of his face. Maybe it had been the sad parts of the programme, but he felt protective.

For the first time he was realising why people thought they were a couple; sometimes he _felt _like they were almost a couple, but not. They spent most of their time together; he hadn't dated anyone in months, and they had that easygoing connection that came with people who knew each other so well nothing mattered any more.

On the one hand, there was the whole thing about being married to his work. Everyone's comments – Mycroft's, Irene's – had been enough to convince him that Sherlock didn't seem to like that kind of thing at all. But on the other, Sherlock did care, even though people thought he didn't. He'd thrown a man out of a window for hurting Mrs Hudson.

John cared a lot about Sherlock, and he hoped Sherlock cared about him.

Of course, he knew he did. The rescue from the tunnels with the Black Lotus, and the pool, and even the fact he hadn't kicked him out of the flat for being boring showed that. Sometimes though, he wondered. Sherlock didn't always speak to him, they had arguments, Sherlock called him an idiot, John called him insensitive, or worse. But no matter what happened they'd always gotten over it.

It was a sort of growing realisation that he wouldn't actually mind if Sherlock wanted to take things a step further. He knew he'd been trying to ignore the feeling, but perhaps, actually, it wouldn't kill him to admit he liked Sherlock in perhaps a not-entirely-platonic way. It didn't actually surprise him much - everyone thought it already, after all. It was just like one more person joining the general feeling that John Watson was, in fact, attracted quite strongly to Sherlock Holmes.

The thoughts were making his head ache, so he stepped upstairs to get ready for bed himself; it was early, but he thought he might as well catch up on sleep whilst he could. He didn't want to think about this when he was tired - his mind tended to leap to stupid conclusions when he was.

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><p>In the morning John was woken by Sherlock shifting and moving around downstairs. He sighed and leaned over to check the time, and was pleasantly surprised to see it was after ten. He couldn't remember the last time he'd had a Sunday lie-in.<p>

He made his way to the bathroom much more cheerfully then usual, and twisted the cap off the toothpaste with a smile on his face. He liked brushing away the taste of the night, although he didn't understand why toothpaste had to come with twist-off caps these days; the flip ones were much easier to handle when you were still sleepy.

His eye caught the bath and he stared at it, frowning; the way Sherlock had been sitting there he'd returned to the flat, so jumpy and strange, had unnerved him. At first he'd feared the worse, but Sherlock's pupils had been normal when he'd checked them. He remembered leaving in a rage, weeks ago now, and then he'd realised that this wasn't what he wanted at all when he was halfway to Sarah's. Mycroft had texted him as well, but he'd already given the order to go back; the cabbie had thought he was crazy, wanting to turn around.

He replaced his toothbrush and stood in his pyjamas, and thought and thought. He'd been avoiding the subject last night, but it wasn't like him to run from a problem; he knew he had to think about this. He liked Sherlock, and he could live with that. But surely, Sherlock didn't like him back?

It was if his mind had finally opened up; all the little things lately, the way Sherlock looked and spoke, the way he'd snapped up any excuse to be close, made tea and reminded him about the television programme last night. John hadn't thought it odd before; Sherlock was always strange and irregular, but now it seemed to have been going on far too long to be just a phase. It had been happening since the argument, since he'd dared to stand up to Sherlock, and he understood – Sherlock was scared. He dared to think for a second that Sherlock was afraid of losing him, but then berated himself for being bigheaded; Sherlock had been tired and shaken up, maybe he'd even felt guilty, so he'd gone to more effort lately so he didn't lose the person who paid most of the rent. That was the explanation.

But then there was Donovan, who knew something she wouldn't repeat back to them; who, lately, had been shooting them both suspicious glances at crime scenes and had, in fact, not been as foul as was usual. Whatever Sherlock had said had shocked her, and the way her looks seemed when she looked at him sometimes; they were almost pitying.

John let his mind fall back to the time with the man with the ketamine, and suddenly the pieces began to fall into place, slotting into his mind like a jigsaw until he though he had the entire picture.

Sherlock had said he knew the feeling – the feeling of wanting to die for someone even after they'd gone. And John realised he would do exactly the same for Sherlock.

Of course, they might just have been friends – best friends might die for each other. But no, the man had been more than friends with the embezzler, Sherlock had said so, and the man hadn't denied it. And Sherlock had said, he'd _said_ he knew what that man had felt like, in that one little snippet of empathy that had, without either of them realising it, shown John everything.

Sherlock was, or had been, in _love _with someone.

It could have been someone else. It could have been anyone, anyone at all, someone from Sherlock's past, a woman even, but John still raced down the stairs at a speed much too fast to be safe and collided with Sherlock in the hall; he was wearing his coat and scarf, getting ready to go somewhere.

Sherlock stared at him, arms wrapped around John's shoulders where he'd grabbed him to stop them both from falling over. John looked at him very carefully, but couldn't see anything that would show him what to do either way.

"Are you going to tell me what you said to Donovan in the Lakes?"

Sherlock blinked and hesitated. "John, I…"

"You don't have to. I don't mind." He did, but not as much as he minded passing this moment up.

In about five seconds they were going to be either very happy or very confused, but they were already confused so it didn't matter, really.

He leaned up and kissed him, only now remembering he was in his pyjamas with toothpaste smeared at the corner of his mouth; normal people would have pushed him away in disgust. But Sherlock, thank god, wasn't, and never had been, normal, and he carried on the kiss, very tentatively pushing their lips together.

It didn't last long, because John was out of breath from running down the stairs, but it was enough and it was good. He pulled away with some reluctance and took a shaky breath; Sherlock stared at him, shell-shocked, but the corner of his mouth was twitching up into a small smile.

"I'm not too late, am I?" said John breathlessly, unable to stop a smile reaching his own lips, stretching out until it was a kind of dazed grin.

Sherlock shook his head.

"No John. You're never too late."

John laughed. He was mad, he was sure – they were both wonderfully stark raving bonkers.

But for once he felt he was right on time.

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><p><strong>The end.<strong>


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